


Ice Ice Baby

by punkfaery



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bonding, Bucky/Loki if you squint, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ice Cream, Jötunn Loki, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Touch-Starved, mindless self-indulgence but who cares i had fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 06:46:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8738821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkfaery/pseuds/punkfaery
Summary: When Bucky finally squeezes through the gap, the icy air hits him like a waterfall. For a few minutes he just stands there, sweat cooling on his body, eyes closed in sheer unadulterated bliss. Then he remembers whose bedroom he’s just invaded, and opens them again hurriedly. "Why are you - " he starts, and then he stops again. Loki is sitting on the bed opposite him, looking very pissy and very blue."Oh," says Bucky."Yes," says Loki.Or: the one where Wanda, Pietro, Bucky and Loki are awkward roommates (because house arrest something something handwave shh), and it turns out Loki's Jötunn nature actually comes in pretty useful during heatwaves. Also, there's ice cream.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's nearly Christmas, so guess what? Time for unexpected fic! This started out as a joke between me and some friends and spiralled into a 5k piece of nonsense, because I have a lot of emotions and no self-control. It's shamelessly self-indulgent. Hope you enjoy.

It's the hottest day of the year, supposedly, and New York is a high-rise hellhole of bubbling tarmac and plastic cups wilting in the sun. The grass of the square outside is scorched brown, dry and dead; some kids were messing around on it earlier, trying to drown ants with a hose, but it's too hot now even for them, and the sorry-looking patch of turf is all but deserted. Bucky's still technically under house arrest, but he can tell from one touch of the scorched windowsill that the pavement outside will be a similar temperature. You could have fried an egg on it, if you liked eggs. Bucky hates eggs. He'd kill for a milkshake, though. One with sprinkles. And ice cream, preferably vanilla.  

He is beginning to discover the hazards of having a wardrobe that consists mostly of black leather trousers, black leather waistcoats, black leather body armour, black leather gloves, black leather face masks, and not very much else. To stave off heatstroke, he's donned a pair of Hawaiian boxer shorts and a Black Veil Brides tee that he stole off Wanda (he's not sure if she hasn't noticed yet, or if she just doesn't want to admit that she likes Black Veil Brides). The outfit change isn't helping much. The sweat patches under his arms are the size of continents, and a headache is slowly thumping into life at his temples, making his eyes feel too big for his skull.

"This is your fault," he says to Wanda.

"My fault? How exactly is it my fault?" Wanda is huddled close to the electric fan, a book clutched to her chest. The letters on the cover look like a foreign alphabet. He can't tell if she's reading in her native language or studying ancient runic lore. Knowing her, it could be either.

"You can do _magic,"_ says Bucky. "Can't you just...make it rain?"

"I think you're getting me confused with Thor," Wanda says.

"If she could change the weather, do you really think we'd all be sitting here slowly fry-cooking?" says Pietro, appearing out of thin air and nearly making Bucky fall off the couch.

Ignoring Pietro's snickering, he scrambles back into position with as much dignity as he can muster. "Can you stop  _doing_ that? Why - when did you even get here?"

"About a quarter of a second ago, and no, I will not stop. It cools me down," says Pietro, and he morphs once again into a vaguely humanoid grey blur and circles the room several times at the speed of light. They watch him wearily until he finally solidifies and demands to know if there's any ice cream left, to which Wanda responds that she has no idea and maybe he should just go and _check the fridge_ like an _adult._

"I think we've run out," Bucky tells him in an attempt to keep the peace.

 _"Ass,"_ says Pietro darkly, and collapses face first on to the couch.

"Has anyone seen Loki?" asks Wanda after a while.

No one has, as it turns out. They all lie there for a bit longer, pretending that this isn't a problem. Most people wouldn't give a second thought to the unexplained absence of a flatmate, but then, most people don't room with psychotic alien demigods who are fully capable of razing entire cities into smoking ruins at the drop of a hat.

"Should I check his room, maybe?" Wanda asks, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. Loki's not particularly keen on her, but then again he's not particularly keen on any of them. It's kind of like sharing a flat with an angry stray cat that only emerges to steal food and bite anyone who tries to pet it. He imagines trying to pet Loki, and then stops very quickly, because there are some things that don't need to be thought about, by anyone, ever.

"Nah," says Bucky. He rolls over from where he's been lying on the floorboards, sprawled out on his back. Even after four years free of HYDRA's influence, he still finds hard surfaces more comfortable than soft ones. Mattresses are too yielding, too alien; far too often he finds himself jerking awake in the small hours of the morning, disoriented, unsure where he is or even _when_ he is, weird as that sounds. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, willing himself out of that particular train of thought. "I'll go. He knows me."

"Does he, though?" says Wanda, sounding sceptical.

He makes a face. "We pretty much cohabited for a while before you guys turned up. That might mean something. Hard to tell, with him." He gets to his feet, rather less elegantly than usual, and stretches. There's an ominous crunching sound. Okay, so sleeping on hard surfaces may be comfortable, but no one ever claimed it was good for your skeleton.

"Ooh boy, that did not sound good," says Pietro cheerfully. "So, do you need any backup?"

Bucky imagines Pietro's version of backup and narrowly avoids shuddering. "Uh...thanks, but I'll be okay. I think."

"What will you do if he's not in there?" says Wanda. "I mean... he's not supposed to leave the flat, right?"

She doesn't add that with Loki, phrases like "supposed to" and "not allowed" and "against the law" become just a tiny bit redundant. The best way to get through to him is reverse psychology, or failing that, reverse-reverse psychology. Bucky shrugs. "No idea. Maybe give it a few hours, then phone his brother?"

"He will kill you if you do that," Wanda says.

"Yeah, well. Better me than a cityful of defenseless civilians. See you in a minute."

"Bye, good luck, try not to get horrifically murdered," Pietro says into the couch.

"Seconded," says Wanda, patting his arm with a sympathetic expression. Bucky's not sure if this is because she's genuinely concerned for his welfare, or because he's the only person in the apartment who's willing to watch Gossip Girl with her without putting up a fuss. Regardless, he appreciates the support.

The hallway is cooler than the sitting room, but not by much. A fly blunders around confusedly near the ceiling, colliding with the windows every now and again. Bucky tracks its flight path for a few moments, wondering idly if Loki's shapeshifting abilities extend to insects. When the fly crashes into the lampshade for the third time, he decides it probably doesn't. If that fly was Loki, it would be more likely to sit on the windowsill and preen itself with its forelegs.

He checks the kitchen next. Nothing. And they've run out of ice cream, just as he'd predicted. Shame - he hasn't had ice cream in a while. He wonders if they have ice cream on Asgard. Probably not. From what Thor's said they seem to just sit round blazing open fires and eat spit-roasted venison. For his part, Loki doesn't talk much about where he comes from, and Bucky doesn't push. They've both got various skeletons in various closets, and that includes Pietro and Wanda, and it's fine. Mostly.

The bathroom is empty too, as are Pietro and Wanda's rooms. The contrast between them is as jarring as ever - one a migraine-inducing chaos of mess and peeling, Blu-tacked posters, the other all clean white walls and floor and neat bedspread, with the plasma ball Pietro got her for her birthday still sitting on the desk. Bucky's own bedroom is also deserted, and looks as unlived-in as ever. It even smells different to the rest of the flat - a stuffy, yellow sort of smell. After the first few nights of waking drenched in sweat, with visions of masked intruders at the windows and bugs crawling over his face and hands holding him down dissipating into the darkness, he migrated to the sofa. The bad nights didn't go away, but waking up by the window with the lights of the houses opposite reflecting off the floor and the smell of honest city pollution was...easier. He hasn't had a bad night in a while now. _Touch wood,_ he thinks, tapping the doorframe.

Next up is Loki's room. Bucky slows and stops, taking a deep breath in.

He never quite knows how he stands with Loki. Sure, they might have a certain common ground in being the only two residents who are under house arrest, but that doesn't make them _friends._ He's pretty sure Loki doesn't even understand the concept of friends - there are people he hates, and people he doesn't hate (as much), and people who don't particularly interest him. Bucky probably falls into the latter category, which he supposes is sort of reassuring. They've had few proper all-out fights, mostly because Loki keeps to himself and Bucky doesn't rise to the bait.

Then had come the first escape attempt, enacted in Loki's usual spectacular fashion, after which Wanda and Pietro had been stationed at the flat by Fury to keep an eye on him. Since then, things have been pretty quiet. Bucky knows better than to take that as a sign that everything is going fine. Experience has taught him two things: firstly, that no news is rarely good news, and secondly, that the less trouble Loki is presenting, the more worried you should be. On the bright side, at least they haven't had any trouble from the big names out there, like Doctor Doom (and who calls themselves that, _honestly)_ or Magneto, which Bucky is faintly surprised at - when you share a house with two mutants and an alien war criminal in the middle of downtown New York, you kind of tend to expect trouble. Maybe that's another way in which supervillains are like cats - the best way to keep them out of your garden is to have one of your own.

 _Better get it over with,_ he thinks, and knocks - just two sharp little taps. "Anyone home?"

There's a scuffling sound, like someone dropped something or shifted position, and then silence. He waits. Still nothing.

Someone's definitely in there, though.

"To hell with it," he says to himself, very quietly, and knocks again. "Hey! Loki, you in there?"

Another silence, long enough that he's considering just giving up and going back to the living room and admitting his failure (and maybe persuading Pietro to run down to the shop and buy him some ice). Finally, just as he's about to turn away, a voice that's muffled but still recognisable as Loki's says, "Go away."

Bucky hesitates for a second. Then he asks, silently cursing his inner do-gooder, "Is everything okay in there?"

"Go. Away," says the voice, more insistent this time.

He wants to. He really, genuinely wants to, and he would too, but for some reason it feels...nice here, outside Loki's room. He's no longer sweating, although his shirt is still damp and his hair sticky. Even the headache has died down a bit, the pounding in his temples reduced to a dull, aching throb.

He's just wondering why that should be when there's another scuffling sound, louder this time. Really curious now, Bucky leans in and rests his ear against the door - and then jerks away abruptly, stifling a yelp. The door is _cold -_ not just in the way that cool wood sometimes feels cool to the touch, but properly freezing, like the inside of a refrigerator. When he puts his hand against the gap between door and wall, a gust of arctic air teases his fingertips, as if he's just stuck his hand in an ice bath.

Well, there's another mystery solved, or at least partially. It feels nice here because this part of the hallway is colder than the rest of the flat. Significantly so. He can't understand why he didn't notice it sooner.

Stepping back towards the door, he raps on it smartly.

"I was under the impression," comes Loki's voice, "that I had asked you to leave."

"Sure I will. In a second. Before I do, do you wanna explain why you've got your own personal North Pole going on here?"

Silence.

"Cause you know, you're not really supposed to use magic here, and I get that the weather right now is kind of a pain in the ass, but it'd be a real shame to break your good record over - "

"I _don't_ have to explain myself to you," Loki hisses, and goes quiet again.

Bucky waits, but that seems to be it. And people tell him he's a bad conversationalist. He scuffs one foot against the carpet, listening to the fly buzzing vaguely and the distant sound of cars passing on the main road.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, an idea starts to germinate.

"So," he says, leaning down towards the keyhole so Loki can hear him better. "How about this: I keep quiet about the magic thing, and in return, I get to come in there and cool off a little. Fair?"

"I don't think so," says Loki, too quickly.

"Why not?"

The door rattles slightly. He backs off, fast, having no desire to be hit by a bolt of hostile magic. "Whilst I detest repeating myself," Loki says, "I think you had better be on your way."

The threat is unmistakable.

"I mean, I would like to," says Bucky, and he sits down in front of the door. "But. Also. Your room is really really cold right now. It’s kind of nice. You know there’s a hosepipe ban right now? They haven’t had a hosepipe ban in New York since, like, 1987." He has no idea if this is true or not, but he figures if he keeps talking long enough Loki will open the door just to shut him up. That usually works with Steve. He doesn’t know if it’s the same with all the quiet types, but he’s probably about to find out.

Sure enough: "Please stop talking," says Loki, sounding like a man at the end of his tether.

"Let me in, and I'll consider it."

There's another pause. Then Loki says, "If you laugh, rest assured I will slit open your stomach and shove your own intestines down your throat until you choke on them."

"That sounds messy," Bucky says. "Uh, why would I laugh?"

In response, the lock clicks.

Assuming that's an invitation, Bucky slides to his feet, turns the handle, and opens up the door. Or tries to. It's kind of difficult with the amount of ice that's on the floor, jutting up in weird crystalline peaks and shards. He has to kick the base of the door repeatedly before it opens enough to let him through, decapitating several stalagmites on the way.

When he squeezes through the gap, the cold air hits him like a waterfall. For a few minutes he just stands there, eyes closed in pure bliss, feeling the sweat cool on his body. Then he remembers whose room he’s just invaded, and starts. "Why are you - " he says, and then he stops again. Loki is sitting on the bed opposite him, looking very pissy and very blue.

"Oh," says Bucky.

"Yes," says Loki.

And that seems to be it for the conversation. They face each other for a few incredibly awkward seconds, Bucky taking in the full impact of Loki: Smurf Edition and Loki staring determinedly off into the middle distance, until Bucky just goes for it and sits gingerly down on the edge of the bed (which is, just like the rest of the room, frozen solid and the exact opposite of comfortable). Loki edges away from him. He's so tense he's practically vibrating.

"So," says Bucky, when the silence gets too thick and awkward even for him to tolerate. "The - the blue thing." Loki's shoulders hunch. "Is that an Asgardian thing? Or..."

"No, it's a - a me thing," Loki says. Bucky gets the odd impression that he was about to say something else, but changed the wording at the last minute. He decides not to ask.

"And is it related to the ice, or..."

"I thought you said you were going to be silent," Loki says.

"I can do silent." This is true. He spent a long time doing nothing _but_ silent, apart from the occasional grunt and monosyllable. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

"Good. Prove it." 

So they do silent for a little while. The cold is so intense that Bucky is actually starting to shiver a bit, even though a few minutes ago he was practically on the verge of boiling alive. He can't help shooting little side glances at Loki, trying to take in his new look without being too obvious about it. The blue isn't smooth, like regular human (or Asgardian) skin; it's criss-crossed with little ridges, some short and scarlike, others spiralling out to form intricate shapes and patterns, almost like henna. Even Loki's eyes have changed, he notices - both sclera and iris have become a dull, muted red, the pupil only slightly darker than its surroundings.

He'd love to stay here longer, take in all of it, find out what it's caused by, but his extremities have started to turn numb and he did _not_ spend almost seventy years in cryofreeze to develop frostbite now. "Well, thanks for the cooling session," he says, getting to his feet. Loki twitches. "I'll just go let the others know you're here -"

"Don't!" says Loki, sharply. And then, as if regretting the sudden outburst, "If you _dare_ tell them about this, I, I'll - "

"What's to tell? If you don't want me to mention the blue thing, I won't. No need for death threats."

"You do not _understand_ \- "

"So tell me," Bucky says.

Loki is silent for a full minute, the fingers of one hand scratching lightly across the other. Bucky's breath puffs out in front of him in frosty clouds. He does his best to suppress the shivering, not wanting to put Loki off.

"The way you normally see me. It isn't - real," Loki says finally. He sounds halting, ill at ease, a far cry from his usual acerbic eloquence. "It's a glamour, of sorts. This is what's underneath. What's always been - " He breaks off abruptly, digging his nails in hard; Bucky resists the urge to reach over and pull his hand away. "I never wanted you to see me like this," he says, almost inaudibly. “Any of you.”

Well, shit, Bucky thinks. What do you say to something like that? He struggles with himself mentally, trying to figure out something that a) won't put Loki on the defensive again and b) won't get him disembowelled. Eventually he decides on, "It's really not all that bad, you know."

He's telling the truth. It'll take some getting used to, sure - he might have known objectively that Loki wasn't human, but it's one thing to be told that and another thing to be sat on a bed with something so obviously, inescapably _alien._ On the other hand, it's very clearly still Loki; the features are the same, as is the voice, the body language, the way the muscles move under the skin.

"Not that bad?" Loki's voice is rising, thick with disgust. "Don't be a fool, _look_ at it - "

"You know, there's a guy at Xavier's academy who looks a lot like you."

For once, that does the trick. Loki shuts up. Bucky wonders if he took him by surprise, and feels vaguely smug at the thought. "Kurt Wagner,” he adds. "Goes by Nightcrawler. I reckon you'd get on pretty well. He's the type for mischief, too." Loki twitches again, looking as though he wants to argue, but Bucky presses on. "And if we're talking lookalikes, you should check out Mystique too. I'm not saying she's the best role model, but if anyone out there can pull off blue skin, she can."

"Why are you telling me this?" Loki says, eyeing him.

Bucky pauses briefly, torn between candour and flattery. He decides to go for a combination of the two. "Because no one should have to feel that terrible about themselves, just for being different," he says. "Because I know what it's like to catch sight of yourself in the mirror and not recognise the person looking back at you - or not _want_ to recognise them. And also because - " He throws caution to the winds. " - okay, look, it's like a fucking sauna out there and if you maybe let Wanda and Pietro just come in here - "

"No."

" - just for five minutes - "

"No."

" - to cool off a little - "

"It's not going to happen."

"I could buy you ice cream," Bucky says.

"What is ice cream?" Loki asks, wrinkling his nose.

Bucky feels a grin starting to take shape. This is going to be _good._

* * *

 "You do know we don’t all have your ridiculously speedy metabolism,” says Pietro as Bucky dumps an armful of ice cream cartons on the coffee table.

Bucky shrugs. “Guess you’ll just have to run extra fast to get rid of it.” Retrieving a family-sized canvas bag from on top of the shelf, he starts loading the cartons in one by one. Okay, so maybe he went a little overboard, but it’s the first time he’s bought ice cream since 1945. He deserves to splash out, right?

“What is ‘Fish Food’?” Pietro asks, dubiously inspecting one of the boxes.

“No idea. Try it and let me know.”

Wanda, miraculously summoned by the scent of chocolate, appears in the doorway. “Oh my goodness! You bought ice cream! What flavours did you get?”

“What flavours _didn’t_ he get?” says Pietro, and licks his spoon. “This is good, by the way.”

Wanda settles herself next to him and knocks his hand away when he tries to go for another mouthful. There’s a brief slap fight, terminated when Bucky chucks a plastic spoon in their direction. “Don’t eat it all,” he tells them. “Remember, this is for the four of us.”

Wanda and Pietro look up at him, eyes narrowed. “Four?” they say, in perfect unison.

* * *

Even as they’re standing outside the door to Loki’s room, he can see them starting to come around. The air down here is cool and slightly damp, like an old museum. Even the muffled cacophony of Main Street is virtually inaudible.

“It _is_ quite nice, isn’t it,” says Pietro. Bucky nods in agreement, feeling the sweat cooling on the back of his neck.

“Are you quite sure he will not…” says Wanda, and stops.

“Murder us where we stand?” Pietro supplies, now pressing his back to the icy surface of the door like a bear scratching an itch against a tree trunk.

“Of course he won’t,” Bucky says more sharply than he intends to.

Pietro shrugs in a “your loss” sort of way. “Better knock, then.”

Bucky does, with three short sharp little raps. “Loki?” he calls out. “You in there?” The question is absurd, he realises that straight away, but so long as Loki opens up he can deal with a little teasing.

There’s a pause, then the door opens, slowly.

“Oh my lord,” Pietro says fervently as an icy breeze washes over them, and Bucky can literally _see_ the last of his hesitance evaporate along with the sweat. He pushes past Bucky and barges ahead into the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

“Um,” says Bucky into the silence. “You know the whole not-murdering-us-where-we-stand thing?”

“I’m on it,” says Wanda, and follows her brother into Bluebeard’s Cave (or the lion's den, or the belly of the beast, or whichever metaphorical figure of speech seems the most fitting). Bucky goes after her, after readjusting his armful of ice cream tubs to make sure they’re not in danger of collapse.

Inside, he finds an interesting tableau that consists of Loki and Wanda making ferociously awkward eye contact with each other, while Pietro lies sprawled full-length on the floor like a blissed-out cat in a patch of sunlight. Hearing him enter, Loki switches his gaze from Wanda to Bucky. The red eyes make it hard to tell, but there’s definitely an accusatory look going on there.

“What? I brought ice cream,” he says in his own defence, and puts the tubs down on the bed. Or at least, that’s what he _tries_ to do, but they sort of end up cascading down in a heap and going everywhere. Loki looks even more affronted.

“What is this?” he says, picking up one of the tubs and turning it over to examine it from every angle.

“It’s kind of like…milk.” How do you explain ice cream to someone from another planet? With difficulty, it turns out. “Frozen milk. With sugar. It’s nice.”

“You mortals have the strangest ideas,” says Loki, and without further ado, he removes the lid, runs a finger round the edge, and licks it.

“Dude, _unhygienic,”_ says Pietro. He’s sat up now, and seems to be trying not to stare too openly at Loki’s skin, contenting himself with fascinated sideways glances. Bucky locates a spoon and slides it over.

“Try the Cookie Dough one. That’s maybe my favourite,” Wanda suggests, and Loki does, expression dubious. They all pretend not to be watching his reaction, Pietro less subtly than the other two.

“Thoughts?” Bucky says after a period of not-uncomfortable silence.

“It is…odd.” Loki’s nose wrinkles. “Not unpleasant, though. Is this customary fare here?”

“Only in the summer,” Bucky tells him, at the same time as Pietro says, “Yes.”

Loki looks between the two of them, seemingly trying to decide what to say, and ultimately shakes his head and goes back to eating. In spite of his lukewarm (ha) reaction, Bucky can’t help noticing that about a third of the ice cream is already gone. “Not unpleasant”, really?

“Is it you making all this happen?” Pietro asks presently, waving a hand to indicate the general…iciness of the room.

Loki looks up from his second ice-cream tub - Jesus, Asgardian metabolism must be something else - and fixes Pietro with narrowed eyes. “Not intentionally.”

“How do you do it?” Wanda asks.

It’s a professional question, one magic-user to another, and Loki apparently picks up on that, which is lucky. He doesn’t seem to like intrusiveness overmuch. “I am unable to teach you how to do it, if that’s what you are wondering,” he says bluntly. “It is innate. I imagine there is an enchantment of some kind that could replicate the sensation of cold, or even manipulate weather, but I’ve never been inclined to learn it.”

“Shame,” Pietro says, nudging Wanda. “Could come in useful.”

“I’ve not found it to be, thus far,” Loki says. The _until now_ hangs there, unspoken.

“So, wait.” Pietro launches himself to his feet and flops on to the bed next to Loki, who goes rigid as steel wire. “It’s coming directly from you? Is that why you’re blue now? Can I touch?”

“No!” Bucky and Wanda shout at him, and, “Absolutely _not,”_ says Loki, managing to pull off haughty contempt in spite of the smear of Cookie Dough ice cream decorating his upper lip.

“Awesome, thanks,” says Pietro, and reaches out to lay a hand on Loki’s arm.

Bucky, mesmerised with horror, is fully expecting Pietro to become a Maximoff-shaped burn hole in the floor. He couldn't have predicted the full-body shudder, or the way Loki’s rigid limbs seem to go suddenly lax, as if he’s just sunk into a hot bath.

“Wow,” Pietro says, unaware that he has narrowly escaped a painful and ignominious death. “Your skin is really cold. Like, _really_ cold. Are you part lizard?”

Loki recovers himself and shakes Pietro’s hand off his arm. “I am aware, and no,” he snaps, apparently trying for dignity.

“You’re like the opposite of a hot water bottle,” says Pietro. “We should do sessions. Cooling sessions. Good for the health and for the sinuses.”

“Pietro, he is not an icebox,” Wanda tells her brother sternly.

Bucky is only half-listening. For some reason, the memory of Loki’s shudder is still caught in the back of his mind. It’s absurd, really, but he can’t help wondering if anyone has ever touched Loki when he’s in this form. Just casually, in passing. Simple, natural touches, like a hand on the shoulder or the brush of skin against skin.

 _I never wanted you to see me like this._ No. No, most likely not.

“Guys,” he says slowly, and Pietro and Wanda break off from their bickering and glance up at him. So does Loki. “I’m having a thought.”

Pietro snorts. “I will inform the media.”

“You know that portable TV in Wanda’s bedroom?” Bucky presses, undeterred.

Wanda blinks at him, but Pietro’s eyes light up. He knows where this is going. “Can we watch _Fast and Furious?_ I have the DVD somewhere, I think. Mister Stark bought it for me last month as a housewarming present.”

Bucky shrugs. “ _Frozen_ might be more appropriate, given the current…setting.”  

Pietro makes a disgusted sound. Wanda looks blank.

“Well, we’ll see,” Bucky says. “Hey, Loki, you wanna pick something?”

“What are you _talking_ about?” says Loki, looking somewhere between annoyed and mystified.

“Loki,” Bucky says, “prepare to be introduced to the wonderful world of Midgardian cinema,” and he slides out of the room before he can face Loki’s reaction, gathering up empty ice cream tubs as he goes.

They get the TV in without too much hassle, although Pietro refuses point blank to put up with _Frozen,_ and Bucky’s inclined to agree that it might not be the best first choice. They compromise with _Beauty and the Beast;_ it’s not entirely a random choice on Bucky’s part, but he hopes the central message is subtle enough that Loki won’t try to accuse him of playing therapist.

“Take it away, Barnes,” says Pietro, flopping back down on the bed and slinging an arm across Loki’s shoulder. Bucky tenses, sure this is a bridge too far, but after an initial moment where Pietro’s life seems to hang slightly in the balance, Loki relaxes very slightly into the touch. _Score,_ Bucky thinks.

Wanda is lying on her front at the foot of the bed, chin propped in her hands and Pietro’s feet resting on her backs of her calves. It doesn’t look particularly comfortable, but she seems happy enough. “I’ve never seen this before,” she says to Bucky as he slides the disc into the player. “Is it good?”

“Wouldn’t be playing it if it wasn’t,” says Bucky. “All right, let’s go.”

As the opening titles appear, he seats himself on Loki’s other side, putting his feet up on the bed. He lets one arm brush against Loki as he does, accidentally-on-purpose, and pretends not to notice the resulting shiver. Okay, so cuddling might be a step too far, but this is…good. It’s enough.

As the opening credits appear, Pietro gives Loki a quick sideways smirk. “You have ice cream on your lip, did you know?”

Loki swipes furiously at his mouth, and informs them, “Say anything about this _ever_ again, and I will remove your limbs one by one while you still live.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pietro says. “Can you pass me the remote? It’s on your side.”

Okay, so it’s not much. But it’s something. Living with Loki is all about baby steps; after all, everyone is talking, and no one is dead or maimed or even bleeding, so he's going to count that as a win.

And if there _is_ cuddling, hypothetically speaking…well, Bucky isn’t going to be the one to mention it. He likes his limbs the way they are, thank you very much.

 

 


End file.
